Pride & Precedents (The Park Brothers #2)

12. Henry

Chapter twelve

Henry

I 'm at a loss. After a night of fretting, it's like yesterday never happened. Camila didn't show up late. She didn't stomp when I called her into my office to discuss outstanding invoices. She didn't roll her eyes or glare when we reviewed the last of the client files moving to archive, even though I had several questions and she's been trying to close out this task for weeks. She's been professional to a T.

Unfortunately, she also didn't drink the iced caramel frappuccino with extra whip I left on her desk before she got in this morning. Byron at Starbucks thought I had a screw loose when I ordered it with my usual black coffee. My first attempt to "play nice" is now up for grabs in the communal kitchen. At least someone will enjoy it.

I should be jumping for joy. After all, I probably don't have to worry about getting a slap on the wrist from HR. I probably do, however, need to switch my nightly hot showers to cold.

Gone are the frumpy K-Mart suits my aunt could've worn. Instead, Camila's wearing a form fitting pencil skirt and four- inch stilettos. She traded her worn out cardigan for a blouse that plunges so low I can see the magenta lace of her bra whenever she leans over my desk. Her usual no-nonsense buns and ponytails have been replaced with loose, wavy locks long enough to brush the tops of her breasts. If we didn't work together, I'd be thinking about running my fingers through her tresses, feeling the silkiness against my skin and envisioning it wrapped around my fist. Since we work together, though, that's the furthest thing from my mind.

On the second day after the "the storm out", she wears a cream wrap dress that stops above the knees to reveal shapely legs and another pair of stilettos. Her hair is down again, but pulled back from her face to highlight gold hoop earrings that brush against the long column of her neck any time she talks. It's borderline distracting. The skin there looks smooth and sensitive…is something I would say if we weren't colleagues.

Walking into Naomi and Tanner's first mediation, I almost bump into Camila when she bends down to pick up papers from her leather folio. No more plain legal pad for her. It takes almost all of my concentration not to think about what someone who doesn't work with her would think after seeing the outline of a thong against her tight navy skirt. Someone who doesn't work with her might think about sliding that skirt up to expose the plump, lush globes, pushing that thong to the side, and—

"Shall we begin, counselor?"

Both the mediator and stenographer look at me expectantly, and I clear my throat to regain some self-control. Camila raises an eyebrow in question.

"Yes, of course. Please proceed."

I open my copy of the client file to validate Tanner's answers and ensure Naomi does not needlessly disclose anything that could impact the settlement. As we anticipated, the largest liability is the pending TanFit IPO. Most judges would question a spouse filing for divorce so close to when the other stands to receive a windfall. I'll need to prep Naomi for hostile questioning from the other attorney on this.

Despite the awkward start, the mediation proceeds as expected. Tanner flew out to attend in person, and both he and Naomi appear calm throughout. But I don't miss the tic in Tanner's jaw each time property is discussed. Years as a divorce attorney means I have a nose for when a client is trying to withhold information. I make a note to investigate further.

It's been two weeks since the incident and Camila hasn't slipped and called me "Henry" once. She comes in on time and works diligently, but doesn't stay a second past when I dismiss her to go home. She's even pushed back against staying late once or twice, mentioning "after-work commitments". Does she have a hot date or something?

She used to ask about my weekend, offer to grab me a coffee, tease me about my repetitive lunch orders. All of that's gone and in its place is painfully dry small talk. The weather. Her commute. The date of the next department happy hour. And now I'm the one initiating these conversations, if you can call them that. They last no longer than is polite before she's back at her desk or off to the library for more research.

With everyone else, she's her usual chatty self. She led this month's paralegal professional development session, lingering in the conference room to joke around with the team before heading out for drinks. When she's at her desk, she's talking and laughing with anyone that passes by; usually that dweeb, Jeremy, from the mailroom. They laugh together a lot . He finds a reason to visit her desk almost daily, bringing her packages as soon as they arrive or volunteering to help her stuff envelopes. She's too blind to see the poor boy's got a crush on her. I wish it didn't all unfold in full view of my desk.

All the coffees, bagels, and muffins I've left for her have ended up in the kitchen for some hungry interns to pilfer.

A month has passed since our little incident and I'm starting to feel twitchy. Today, she's wearing a forest green dress with buttons down the front and a matching belt. Her arms are bare and her supple, honey-tinged skin seems to glow even in the fluorescent lights of the office. Long, full lashes surround round eyes so dark and deep I could fall into them. I can't believe just four weeks ago I thought this woman looked plain. She's beautiful . Distractingly so.

Still, I want the old Camila back. The one who asked personal questions I always dodged. The one who noticed when something was off that first day with Naomi. The one who brought me that gift basket for Christmas during COVID. The one who called me Henry even when I corrected her. The one who hid her dangerous curves under knee-length skirts, sensible pumps, and loose sweaters.

This Camila doesn't do any of that. This new, aloof, sexy Camila is currently on her hands and knees behind my desk doing God knows what. Plugging in a new router, perhaps? Certainly not what my sex-starved brain is imagining she's doing. I clear my throat to stop her before those thoughts tighten the crotch of my pants any further.

"Ms. Sanchez. May I ask what you're doing?"

Down on all fours, she looks back at me over her shoulder and my throat constricts.

"I dropped my pen and the dang thing rolled all the way under your desk. I'll be out of your hair in a minute, Mr. Park."

Please take your time. I'll just wait here thinking about baseball statistics and trying not to drool. After a final arch of her back,—the memory of which I will definitely revisit before bed tonight—she starts to stand, but her killer heels buckle on the way up; Louboutin is hardly made for crawling.

Unable to find her footing, she stumbles into me, pressing her entire front against my entire front. And she feels it. She feels… me . Evidence I really enjoyed her little floor show is currently straining against the inside of my zipper and attempting to stab her in the belly button. Oh God. Her eyes widen in recognition just as I push away from the contact.

"Pardon me, sir. I-I'll just head back to my desk."

She scurries out of my office and shuts the door behind her. Well, shit. As if things weren't awkward enough, now I'm getting hard-ons in the office like a teenager. I yank my phone out of my pocket to text Noah.

Noah

Camila just felt my boner!

Noah: Yo, what? LOL

I came into my office and Camila was on her knees under my desk

Noah: Hot. I've seen videos that start like that.

Oh grow up

I was nowhere near her when she was down there, but then she tripped and fell right into me.

Noah: LOL!!!

Noah: OK. So why are you talking to me?

Noah: You should be playing naughty secretary with her right now!

I wish, but she ran out of here so fast, she left skid marks on the carpet

Noah: Oof.

It was bad, man. Things have been off since we made out. Now she's probably going to ask for a transfer

Noah: I'm sorry, bro.

Noah: You think maybe she didn't like what she felt?

What?

Noah: Like maybe Dad only passed the sundae down to me ;-)

You know for a fact that's not true

Noah: I won't tell the other brothers if that's what you're worried about

Noah: I've read men with micropenises can still go on to lead healthy, fulfilling lives.

OMG. Whoever said twins have some special bond was full of shit.

Well, that was a waste. Now Mila thinks I'm some pervert and my brother's going to rub this in my face for the next three months at least. I bet he's already sent screenshots of our texts to Cory.

I clench my jaw and pound my fist on the desk. Fuck this! Acting like I don't find her attractive isn't working. "Playing nice" definitely isn't working. It's time I faced this head on. We're both adults, and if she wants to transfer to another department, so be it.

Resolved to accept whatever happens, I press the intercom button.

"Ms. Sanchez? Can you please come into my office?"

I wait five seconds and there's no answer.

"Ms. Sanchez? May I have a word?"

A few more seconds go by and still nothing. I push out of my seat, cross my office, and open my door, only to see her desk empty. Don't tell me she's run off again! I pull my phone out, checking for another bogus text. Nothing. I let out a breath, thankful for the small victory. I have to find her. I'm beyond ready to put this whole mess behind us.

I walk past conference rooms and the other partners' offices, checking up and down hallways until I'm standing outside the file room. It's dim and cramped,—we need to have an intern clean this out immediately—but I see her, standing on her tiptoes to reach a box on the top shelf. The image she makes is so alluring, I move without consciously deciding to do so.

"Here. Let me get that for you," I say. Reaching over her head, I'm close enough to touch her. Close enough to smell her perfume; it's something vanilla with a musky edge. Maybe sandalwood?

When I place the box on the table beside her, I don't immediately move away. I should. Camila and I in a dimly lit room—a room with a lock on the door—is not a good idea. She looks up at me and I see her eyes dilate.

"Thank you," she whispers.

I take a deep breath. Now's the moment of truth.

"Mila, I think we need to discuss what's been going on."

She gasps, staring at me with wide eyes.

"What?"

"It's just that you always call me 'Ms. Sanchez' at the office. I believe it's one of your rules ."

She spits the last word out like it leaves a sour taste in her mouth. Shit. Did I really just call her 'Mila'?

"My apologies, Ms. Sanchez. The fact remains that we need to discuss the change in our work dynamic."

She rolls her eyes and reaches for the box.

"If you're about to give me the whole 'let's keep things professional' speech, I'll remind you that you're the one who crossed the line in your office just now."

I rake my hands through my hair in frustration.

"That was an accident. You're the one who was on all fours looking like a damn pinup."

I close and lock the door so anyone still around doesn't overhear our conversation. Mila starts angrily yanking files from the box.

"A pinup, huh? So, are you saying I was asking for it?"

Yikes. Did that really come out of my mouth?

"I just mean your clothes lately are hardly work appropriate."

She turns to skewer me with a glare hot enough to melt steel.

"I'll have you know, Mr. Park, that all of my outfits adhere to BBS close enough for her to feel my breath against her lips.

"I said I would hear you out. I did not say I would let you talk shit about me or yourself."

Camila remains silent, sensing the danger in my voice.

"I had a lot of drinks that night, sure, but I think what just happened in my office proves I'm attracted to you with or without the alcohol."

The tempo of her breath picks up, pushing her breasts into my chest. At the feel of her against me, all sense flies from my head.

"The alcohol may have made me forget the rules, but it had nothing to do with why I kissed you that night."

Her pupils are big as saucers, and laser focused on my mouth.

"Oh? So why did you kiss me?"

"I—"

She steps closer to me, her breasts pressed so tightly against my chest now that I can feel her pebble hard nipples through her blouse. Why did I come in here, again?

"What made you put your hands on my hips that night? Why did you grab my neck and push your tongue into my mouth?"

Her last words are whispered against my neck, her lips grazing my skin. I close my eyes to try an block out her assault of my senses.

"Camila…"

"Yes, Henry?"

She presses her lips firmly to the side of my jaw, dragging them up to the shell of my ear before she first bites then licks the tender flesh. Fuck the rules.

I let out a growl before taking her neck just as I did that night, finding her mouth open and yielding to my lips and tongue. I'm drowning in her erotic scents: her perfume, the tangy smell of her arousal, the mint of her breath as she pants into my mouth.

I release the hand on the back of her neck to explore the delectable tits driving me senseless. My knuckles brush her skin as I unbutton one button on her dress, then a second, then a third, until only thin, black lace covers her chest.

Unable to resist looking at the treasure I've revealed, I break the kiss and stare unabashedly right at her breasts. Her coffee-colored nipples push against her bra, begging me to touch them, to lick them, to worship them.

Who am I to deny her?

I kiss along the rim of the lace, descending further into madness with each whimper that leaves Camila's mouth. She's just as responsive as I remember.

Finally, I thumb the lace aside and pinch a point between my lips, swirling it against my tongue like the most sinful truffle. She clutches my shoulders with each lick, using my chest to muffle her moans.

My erection is pushing against her, so ready to sink into her, I feel the first drops of precum leave the tip. I nudge my knee between her legs and can't stifle a groan at the feel of her steaming core through the fabric of my pants.

The sound of someone trying the door before realizing it's locked— thank God! —turns us both to stone. How do we explain this? Camila recovers first, stepping away and yanking her nipple from my mouth with a moist pop. Her abrupt retreat thankfully works like ice water, deflating my cock in the same time it takes her to pick up the box of files, paste a smile on her face, and thrust open the door.

"Oops! The door must've closed behind me!" she says too brightly to whoever waits on the other side.

As she pushes the door open wider to make her escape, I see it's a member of the cleaning crew. My heart resumes beating and I make a note to drop a couple Benjamins in the collection plate this Sunday. Things with Camila just went from awkward to beyond complicated.